3 Great Historical Novels (59 page)

Nikolai stood up in a rush, his chair crashing to the floor. ‘I’ve offended you! If it were anyone but Sonya, I’d never ask for such a thing. I know
you loathe asking the Party for privileges, that you never do it even for yourself, that you despise people who try to use your influence for their gain. I know all this, and I’m sure you hate me for presuming. But it’s Sonya — it’s my Sonya!’ He backed away from the chair as if it were a body on a battlefield.

‘Please believe me, Nikolai. If I could do anything to find her, if I could make any phone calls or send any telegrams, I would do so instantly. But from the day the Germans breached our borders, my influence has counted for nothing. I can’t even get score paper to continue my work. Stalin and his generals are concentrating on military strategy, not musical matters. At present, in official eyes, I’m smaller than an ant.’

‘Of course.’ Nikolai’s hectic flush had faded, leaving his face waxy. ‘You’re right. I’ve been grasping at straws.’

‘As one does, when the river is closing over one’s head.’ Tears stung Shostakovich’s eyes; he’d just remembered Sonya’s small hand on his arm as he’d walked her home down Nevsky Prospect. Was it possible the train carrying her to safety was now a twisted mess of metal? Carriages splintered apart, fragments of bone scattered over the dry ground?

‘I must go.’ Nikolai sounded more definite. He picked up the chair and set it neatly in at the table. ‘I’ll go to the
Pravda
offices to see if anyone there knows anything. I’m sorry if I interrupted your work.’

Shostakovich kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m quite used to interruptions. You know what it’s like trying to work with youngsters —’ He stopped, bit his lip and rushed on. ‘Even if my name were General Shaposhnikov or Marshal Voroshilov, I’d be unable to help you. Our commanders are masters of chaos, attempting to steer Russia with neither a plan in front of them nor experience behind them. Details go unnoticed, the bigger picture confounds them. We’re in the hands of fools and idiots, thanks to the way the army was decimated by our own leader. You don’t think the bumbling generals who survived the purge would know where evacuees are, do you, when they can scarcely locate their own brains?’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’ Nikolai’s head drooped. ‘It’s hopeless, of course. But nonetheless I must go on searching.’

‘It’s not hopeless,’ urged Shostakovich, ‘and you must go on hoping. Hearing Sonya play, I felt sure she was destined for a great future. I still feel that now, and my instincts are seldom wrong.’

‘I have the cello. Perhaps, like the beam of a lighthouse, it will bring her home.’ But Nikolai walked to the door like a blind man, hands outstretched as if to stop himself falling.

Back in his workroom, Shostakovich sat at the desk for some minutes, his shoulders heaving. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve, picked up his father’s shaky hand-made gadget, and began tracing staves on the backs of old composition essays as if his life depended on it. The metal spider moved lightly and crookedly over the paper, leaving trailing lines in its wake. Page after page, rhythm soothing away thought until the chaos of the world was reduced to five clean but uneven lines.

September was cold and grey. Every day the sun hid behind thick cloud as if avoiding the sight of German tanks poised at Leningrad’s gates. The urgency of the summer had been replaced by a strange lethargy growing like moss over the surface of the city. Ordinary activities were interspersed with extraordinary ones but, whether shuffling in bread queues or training for grenade-throwing, people spoke in flat voices and their faces were as dull as the gun-metal sky.

Shostakovich was feeling increasingly exhausted. His legs ached and there was a constant pain behind his eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s because my thirty-fifth birthday is approaching,’ he said to Nina. ‘I’m becoming an old man.’

‘Fire-watching all night and composing all day is enough to make anyone feel old. Besides, you always feel ill when you’re writing. Once you’ve finished this work, you’ll be fine.’

‘Once I’ve finished! The problem is —’ He took a burning gulp of tea, glanced at Nina, who was grating potatoes, and plunged into an admission, hoping it wasn’t a mistake. ‘This is only a first movement. Although this one may be done in a few days, there’ll still be a second movement to write, and then a third and a fourth.’

‘It’s going to be … a symphony?’

‘I’m afraid so. You’d think twenty-five minutes of thunder and lightning would be enough. But a few days ago I was forced to acknowledge that there is more to come.’ He remembered the moment with something close to annoyance. As he’d dragged a bucket of sand up the steep steps
to the Conservatoire roof, suspicion had hardened into certainty. The final grumbles of the main theme, the tanks fading into the distance — they weren’t final. There was more to write.

Nina gave a small sigh. Perhaps she was remembering the last stages of the Sixth Symphony, when he’d plummeted into such a severe depression he couldn’t get out of bed? Mixing flour into the grated potato, she made a face. ‘I could do with an egg.’

‘And I could do with a scherzo,’ he said gloomily. ‘Then an adagio, then a finale. Wonderful.’

‘You might be pleasantly surprised. After all, the Sixth turned out to be only three movements.’

He toyed with his glass, turning it between his fingers, watching the clear liquid spin inside.

‘You’ll be fine.’ She turned from her cooking and gave him a bright smile.

Shostakovich grunted. He resented being told he’d be fine when he knew with conviction, he would never be fine again. The constant nervous energy that drove him on was giving him diarrhoea (inconvenient when stuck on a roof for hours without anyone to relieve his watch). He might die in a flurry of bombs, with his arse stuck in a bucket. A fitting end for a prominent Soviet composer! Then Stalin would regret the harassment he’d ordered over the years. ‘Comrade Shostakovich?’ he’d say from behind his walrus moustache. ‘I’m sorry to say I hounded him to the point where he became a nervous wreck. This was before the war with Germany, of course. The Seventh Symphony was his last; his bowels were shot to pieces from the strain. The trouble began in 1936, when I misjudged his opera, and it ended, somewhat ironically, on the roof of the building where he studied. Caught by the Junkers with his pants down, shitting like a firebomb — not the way we want our greatest men remembered —’

‘What?’ With a jolt, he returned to the present.

Nina was beside him, taking the tea from his hands. ‘Can you call the children in? We’ll eat in ten minutes.’ Even in the dull papered-window light, her exhaustion was plain.

‘Nina,’ he said earnestly. ‘I know you want us to leave Leningrad, but please understand. It seems wrong to flee like rats from a sinking ship.’

She averted her face. ‘That’s beginning to sound like an excuse to make yourself feel better about risking your children’s lives.’

‘An excuse?
An excuse
?
I hardly think that saving Leningrad from destruction qualifies as a bloody excuse!’

‘The only thing you’re bothered about saving is yourself.’ Nina’s voice rose. ‘You can’t bear to be interrupted in the middle of writing. You’re scared that if we leave now, you’ll lose track of what you’re working on. Your music is far more important to you than your family or your country. Why don’t you just tell the truth?’ She marched over to the window. ‘Galina, Maxim, come inside now!’

Shostakovich sank back in his chair. Of course evacuating now would pose a danger to his work. He’d managed to wrest a strange routine from the chaos around him, and if this was interrupted he wasn’t sure he could go on composing. ‘If they start to shell us, then we can reassess.’ Stating this made him feel better: more decisive and authoritative, more like the head of a family. ‘Shells,’ he repeated. ‘And bombs. Once these things start, it may be the right time to pack our bags and leave.’

For two days, all anyone talked about was the first artillery attack on the southern edges of the city. Several of Elias’s musicians came to work with lurid tales passed on by neighbours, or the friends of neighbours, or the neighbours of friends.

‘Like the best fishing tale,’ said Alexander, ‘the shells become bigger and louder with every mouth.’ He alone seemed unfazed by the news that the crucial junction at Mga had fallen; that rail lines east to Tikhvin and Moscow and south to Luga had been cut, leaving one tenuous link across Lake Ladoga. In spite of the fact that bread rations had been further reduced and food supplies would barely last a month, in spite of the fact that German shells were now raining down on factories and churches, ripping up the streets and setting rooftops alight, Alexander sat back and cracked jokes — though no one laughed.

Today he was disrupting rehearsal with more stories. ‘Yuri’s sister-
in-law
was out shopping,’ he said in a dramatic voice, ‘and suddenly she heard a faraway screaming.’

‘It was more of a moaning than a screaming,’ interrupted Katerina Ginka. ‘Vasily Smirnova told me it sounded like a woman in the throes of childbirth.’

Alexander looked annoyed. ‘Well, it rapidly became a screaming once the shells began to fall. Suddenly they were raining all over the street and bursting on the pavement like melons. Human flesh was flying through the air and splattering over the shop fronts. One woman lost her arm and her shopping bag; another woman grabbed the bag out of
the dismembered hand and ran off with it.’ At this there were groans and gasps. Alexander smirked. ‘As Yuri said, only a woman would think of supplies at a time like that.’

Katerina looked at him witheringly. Their love match, it seemed, had already burned itself out. ‘I heard the women were wonderful. It was the men cowering in doorways, while the women went back out to drag in the wounded. Some people had their faces blown right off. There were only holes where their features had been.’

Elias had heard enough. He rapped on the stand with his baton. ‘Please,’ he said, trying to cover his dismay and shock, ‘remember why we are here.’

‘To play sitting ducks?’ The proximity of death had made Alexander even bolder. ‘Here we are, preparing to quack like birds for our unseen English listeners, waiting for shrapnel to tear our wings off. Is it worth it?’

Before Elias could speak, old Petrov took up the cudgels. ‘Shut up. We’ll keep rehearsing until shells fall on our own heads, because that’s our job.’

‘Thank you,’ said Elias faintly. He could imagine only too clearly the writhing bodies and the boarded-up shops sprayed with blood.

‘If there’s any justice in the world,’ added Petrov, staring at Alexander, ‘the noisiest bird will get the first shell.’

‘Perhaps we should look for somewhere else to rehearse,’ suggested Kholodov. ‘If we move to the northern edge of the city, we’ll be further away from those murdering bastards and out of range of their missiles.’

‘The north will become the most dangerous if they start bombing us the way they have in Moscow,’ objected Fomenko. ‘They won’t risk blowing the shit out of their own men.’

And so the squabbling and the bickering began all over again, while Nikolai sat quietly in his usual position at the back of the violins. He’d adamantly refused Elias’s suggestion that he take up the position of concertmaster. ‘It would be more than my life’s worth. I’d rather face German artillery than the collective wrath of an orchestra.’ Now Elias was uncomfortably aware of Nikolai’s objective gaze as the orchestra became more unruly, arguing over Luftwaffe tactics in the same way they fought over interpretations of minor Russian composers. It took all his new-found confidence to raise his voice and tell them to be quiet, that they were obliged to keep playing both in spite and because of this sodding war.

It wasn’t until the next morning on the tram that he realised how exhausted he’d become. He sat in a trance, staring out at a city transformed. Familiar parks slashed by trenches, piles of rusty bedsteads and girders stacked across intersections. It reminded him of his father’s workroom at its busiest: dismayingly chaotic, with no apparent end in sight. He glanced into his briefcase to check the neat scores knotted with string, and pens lined up in canvas holders. Reassured by order, he closed his eyes.

Suddenly the air was ripped apart by sirens. The blaring was entirely different from the sound of air-raid practices — though perhaps this was because it was fused with an unfamiliar whining. The tram halted suddenly, throwing passengers forwards in their seats. Out in the street urgent instructions were being called through loudspeakers.

‘What is it?’ The old woman beside Elias sounded confused; her scarf had slid forward over her face, making her look like a hooded-eyed reptile. ‘What are they saying?’

‘It’s an air raid! A real one.’ Elias’s heart had leapt into his throat; he could hardly speak. ‘We’ve got to move!’

There was a crush as people shoved their way towards the doors and out onto the street. ‘Go to the Alexandrinsky Theatre! Run!’ The driver’s cheeks were flushed a deep crimson.

Theatre Street looked impossibly long, its brown facades and arched windows disappearing into a haze. Already the driver had taken off, a few passengers stumbling behind him. Elias glanced towards the horizon and saw black shapes sweeping in like bats over the city. He gasped, put his briefcase over his head, and ran.

Time moved in odd, unwieldy chunks. He sprinted for what seemed like an age, then found himself tumbling through huge oak doors and falling down some stairs. All of a sudden he found himself motionless, lying in pitch darkness, face down on a cold tiled floor. The body of an elderly man was pressed close against him, his warm wheezing breath filling Elias’s nose and mouth.

How long were they there for? It was hard to tell; there were muffled sounds from outside, and the shifting of bodies inside — and all around was total blackness, increasing Elias’s sense of disembodiment. Later he couldn’t remember what he’d thought or felt. The first clear moment was the distant wail of the all-clear siren.

After some minutes, people got to their feet in silence and shuffled up the stairs. Elias was first out onto the street. There were columns of
smoke rising in the direction of the river.

‘I never thought it would be like this.’ The tram driver was beside him now, brushing dirt and grit off his trousers. ‘I never thought they’d start bombing us so early in the day — before we’ve even digested our breakfast.’ Shaking his head, he headed back in the direction of the trolley-car.

Elias stood still for a minute longer, mesmerised by the smoky sky. He rarely had preconceived notions about anything but he was also surprised — not by the Germans’ audacity, but by the fact he’d just been through an air raid and wasn’t gibbering with fear.

It seemed odd, too, that life could simply go on; that the tram was still there and people were back in the streets, resuming their places in bread queues and quarrelling over who’d been first. Elias, still clutching his briefcase, boarded the tram and returned to the seat he’d been in before. But when they reached the Bolshaya Pushkarskaya stop, he wasn’t sure if he could stand; his legs felt disconnected from the rest of his body. He shuffled into the aisle, using the hand-rail for support.

‘This isn’t your usual stop!’ said the old reptilian woman, her pursed lips almost disappearing into her creased chin. ‘Shouldn’t you be going home, anyway, to check that your mother is safe?’

Who was she? She looked vaguely familiar: perhaps a one-time customer of his father, or an acquaintance of his mother from the days when she still had friends and went out. He bowed stiffly. ‘I have an important errand to run. Besides, I’m sure my mother will be unharmed. The bombs have clearly struck the north and the east of the city, while the south side has been spared.’

‘Uncaring upstart,’ mumbled the woman. ‘Society’s going to the dogs, that’s what I say, when children no longer —’

‘Shut up, you old crone! It’s none of your business.’ Elias pushed his way towards the door. He didn’t need to be reminded about carrying out his duty — particularly when that was just what he was doing.

The side streets in this part of the city seemed peaceful, as if a thunderstorm had passed and the birds were about to start singing. Elias hadn’t been here before, but standing on the stone steps and looking up at the windows, he felt as if he were coming home. He paused for a moment, breathing deeply, before he climbed the stairs to the
fifth-floor
landing. Only when he knocked on the door did he notice that his knuckles were badly grazed and smeared with dust.

Shostakovich himself opened the door. His dark hair was standing on end, his face was pale, and a long smudge of ink marked his forehead.
There was such a racket coming from the room behind him it was impossible to hear a word he said.

‘Good morning.’ Elias spoke loudly, though the din made him suddenly doubt his purpose. What on earth was he doing? The old woman was right. He should be at home — this was no place for him, today of all days.

The noise continued unabated: shrieking, wailing and fitful crying. ‘Would — you — be — quiet!’ roared Shostakovich.

There was instant silence.

Elias stepped back. ‘I’m sorry —’

‘Please excuse me. I wasn’t speaking to you, of course!’ Shostakovich wiped his forearm over his face, so that his sleeve, too, garnered an inky smear. ‘My family’s upset by this morning’s air raid — although I’m afraid such a circus is nothing out of the ordinary.’ He looked at Elias as if seeing him properly for the first time. ‘If it isn’t Karl Eliasberg! Please, come in.’

The room was large and sparsely furnished, filled with a hazy light. On the sofa sat Nina Shostakovich, her sleek black head bent over two smaller ones as she spoke soothingly over snuffling breaths and small sobs. ‘Good morning,’ she said to Elias. ‘I’m sorry for the noisy welcome.’

‘Not at all. Excuse me for arriving unannounced.’ Elias sounded awkward and apologetic, speaking over his shoulder as he scuttled after Shostakovich into another room.

‘Pandemonium.’ Shostakovich shut the door firmly and sank down on the piano stool. ‘After the sirens began we went to the cellar, where we were forced to sit for God knows how long in close proximity to neighbours with whom I have no wish to spend two minutes. Now the bombs have given my wife ammunition of her own. She’s adamant we must leave Leningrad within the hour.’ He stared at the stack of paper at his feet and seemed to speak to himself. ‘Unfinished. Unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, she wants to leave by tomorrow!’

Elias sat down in the nearest chair and placed his briefcase on his knees. ‘I s-s-seem to have arrived at a difficult time. Forgive me for intruding, but I have something here that you might find useful.’

‘Any time in this household is a difficult time. I can understand why Beethoven eschewed family life in favour of brief romances. Can you imagine what the
Eroica
might have become had its creator been forced to cope with two children?’

Elias coughed uncertainly. ‘Speaking of the
Eroica
, I’d like the Radio Orchestra, at some time in the future —’

‘The Radio Orchestra?’ Shostakovich sat up straighter. ‘That might,
indeed, be possible — although Mravinsky seems to know how my mind works.’ He peered at Elias from behind his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘How are they shaping up, your orchestra?’

‘The orchestra is satisfactory, considering the circumstances. Depleted in numbers owing to military commitments, but we’re managing. We’re currently rehearsing Tchaikovsky’s Fifth —’

‘Yes, yes, I know this from my good friend Nikolai. I’m not interested in your repertoire, but rather in the calibre of your musicians. For instance, what’s the state of your wind section?’

‘My wind section,’ repeated Elias. ‘My wind section?’ Being alone with Shostakovich was having a strange effect on him. There was ringing in his ears and a red blur at the edge of his vision.

Shostakovich moved restlessly. ‘Are they strong? It’s some time since I’ve attended one of your performances.’

‘Are they strong?’ Elias could have bitten out his parrot tongue. He tore his eyes away from Shostakovich’s mesmerising stare, trying to think more clearly. ‘They’re talented enough. Though I’m dissatisfied with my lead oboist and hope to replace him before the year’s out. But with the war …’ He trailed away. ‘Everything is uncertain now.’

‘I see.’ Shostakovich sounded disappointed. ‘The oboe is most
important
. What about the rest?’

‘The rest I’m reasonably content with.’ He was floundering. Surely his contentment wasn’t Shostakovich’s primary concern — but what was? ‘They’ve been playing together for six years, so the trombones are excellent, as are the horns. And my trumpets were recently described, in a review by Semyon Shlifsteyn, as some of the finest of this century. But perhaps you read that in
Pravda
last spring?’ He paused hopefully but Shostakovich was staring past him, looking rather vague. ‘As for their lung capacity,’ he hurried on, ‘that must be the best in Russia, if the constant shouting and arguing is anything to go by!’